Handel's "Messiah" and a Night of Odd Dreams

So, I had been looking forward to last night for a week and a half; it was the opening night of the Winston-Salem Symphony's performance of Handel's "Messiah." My friend Saoirse's grandfather is in the symphony, and as a result, we were able to make use of free tickets that he is given for certain performances. After school, I walked home, dawdled for several hours (as we haven't been assigned much homework in this blessed week before Christmas vacation), observed the roasting chicken that my dad had put into the slow cooker, and played around with an online translator. Then, my dad came home earlier than I thought he would, and around 6:00 ish, we got a call (after some technical, phone-related difficulty) from Saoirse about the traveling arrangements; it was decided that, as her mother was headed in the direction of the church to buy some things anyway, she would come pick my dad and I up around 7:00 and drive us over to the church where the concert would be performed, Centenary United Methodist Church, which is on Fifth Street near the library. Then, I scrambled to prepare, putting on my nicest concert dress with the gray half-sweater over it. I reapplied my makeup and even decided to wear some scent.
Soon, Saoirse, her mom, and her baby sister pulled up outside of our house. We got into the car, drove over to the church, and fought through the crowds to the entrance (we ended up having to consult two different "box office" tables to find the reserved tickets). The architecture of the church's interior was stunning (I can't really communicate it better than this). The Sanctuary had one main aisle, with long pews on either side; we were assigned to the right side of Row 6, which was one of the best rows to be had. From my specific spot, I had a clear view of the raised conducting platform, the choir, and the two choral soloists who performed on our side of the room: the tenor (who was my favorite) and the mezzo-soprano. We settled in our seats, conversing, as the musicians (who were, sadly, unable to be seen, as they were basically on the same level as us) tuned their instruments.
Then a hush fell over the room as the tuning stopped, and a great moment of suspense preceded first the entrance of the choral soloists, then of the director himself. We applauded, and the "Sinfonia" section of the "Messiah" began without any further introductory words.
Wow. The first part passed, which wasn't even my favorite part, and I was still amazed by the Handel's ability to come up with even that long of a piece to celebrate his religion; it was odd, but I had the feeling, as I was watching, that the only choral singer who truly felt what he/she was singing, felt more than the pure musical value, was the soprano, who was my dad's least favorite. At a few moments, when I was able to sneak a glance around the heads of the people in front of me, I could see her face, and she was almost tearful. Also, as far as passion and stage presence goes, the conducting was fun to watch as well.
After the second part, there was a "pause," during which the choral soloists and the conductor left the stage for a very brief time; when they came back, I expected that everyone would clap as they did with their appearance after the intermission; alas, they did not. I started to clap, stopped myself just in time, and laughed for no particular reason. Well, for some reason, this amused Saoirse as well, and it happened that everyone seemed to become silent as we were fighting to overcome our amusement; my dad informed me that, yes, people were staring at us. I felt sort of guilty after that, and I hope that the musicians/choral performers/director know that I was not laughing at them, but at my own stupidity.
So, the end of the performance came, and Saoirse's grandfather left with the other musicians before I could be introduced to him. Saoirse's mom drove us back home, we thanked them, went inside, ate our dinner, showered, and finally, around midnight, retired.
Last night, I had these two really weird dreams that I awoke from feeling inordinately stressed out.
In the first dream, my dad, Saoirse, and I were again attending the concert. However, it was earlier in the day, and when we first arrived outside of the church, we were barely able to find a spot to park because about every available space was taken up by these white activity buses, from which poured a multitude of women, mainly in their early twenties. Because of this invasion, we were barely able to make it inside of the building, let alone squeeze into the Sanctuary, where we were forced to stand, still not able to see over the heads of all the women.
The next day, in the dream, I read an article in the newspaper about the event, written by a woman who had "attended the national event (herself)." She wrote about the mobs of women who had migrated from all parts of the country, and even from other parts of the world, simply to look at the music director. The journalist was from San Francisco, and had allegedly traveled a whole week on an activity bus just to be present at this event. When I woke up, I felt cheated, and irritated with the women from other states; North Carolina should be allowed a few secrets and treasures to keep to itself, in my subconscious's opinion.
So, the next dream was not quite as detailed; I remember that I was at a creative writing club meeting. I remember seeing Chloe, Molly, Max, and Walker in this dream, gathered together in the center of Ms. Fitzgerald's room when I first walked in. We sat, as usual, on either side of the room in the desks provided, listening to various authors who took the floor to read of their poetry or prose, just as we usually do; then, at the end, we were trying to decide what activity we should do. Somehow, we came to an agreement that a productive activity would involve the collaborative creation of a poem; however, instead of recording our thoughts on paper, someone suggested that we write the lines of the poem on the bare soles of each other's feet. We retrieved pens from the back of the room and sat in a circle, reaching across every now and then to write an idea on the bottom of someone's foot. It was in the middle of this process that I woke up; thankfully, we did not do any of this at the creative writing club meeting today : )